Thicker than Water
by Eledhwen
Summary: It's a Connor AU fic! Now complete. Chapter 5 added - in which we find out what happened to Wes, and Connor learns to fence.
1. Blood Groups

Spoilers: erm … through to 'Sleep Tight', I suppose?  
  
Disclaimer: not mine! Joss Whedon and friends'.  
  
Author's note: I'm British. I haven't seen Ats season 3. But I've read a few summaries and so on. Basically this is AU from whenever it is that AI discovers Holtz is after Connor. That's it. Enjoy.  
  
  
  
Connor woke with a start, sitting up in his bed and breathing quickly. He looked around himself, and was comforted to see the familiar fittings of his little room –pictures on the walls, his bears that he had never quite grown out of perched in his chair, a baseball bat against the wall. He lay back down again, trying to get to sleep, and to forget the dream – it had not been quite a nightmare – of dust, and yellow eyes glaring at him.  
  
* * *  
  
"Morning, honey." Connor exchanged kisses with his mother. "Did you sleep well?"  
  
"I dreamt." He climbed on to the stool and picked up a spoon to start breakfast.  
  
"A bad dream?" She passed him juice.  
  
"No. I don't know." He chewed Cocoa Pops thoughtfully. "I can't remember."  
  
He found it difficult to settle to school that day. Three times a teacher rebuked him for inattention, and in gym he lacked his usual energy. In the locker room afterwards, he overheard someone gloating that for once Connor Abrams had been beaten; though when he asked his friend Matt if he'd heard, Matt merely shrugged. Connor chalked it up to his own good hearing.  
  
When he got home from school, he fetched his bicycle from the garage and shouted that he was going to ride it to the mall and back. His mother stood on the doorstep and called instructions to him, and, as usual, he barely listened, and cycled off to get rid of the frustration of the day.  
  
Later on, he was never quite sure how the accident happened. It must have been quick, for one moment he was cycling along trying to remember his dream, and the next, he was lying on the road, his vision blurred and indistinct. People were standing over him, and someone told him to lie still and everything would be all right.  
  
He woke up again in the bright white of a hospital. People were busy around him, someone doing something painful with a needle in his arm. He blacked out again and came to with his mother grasping his hand and talking to a nurse.  
  
"He's AB."  
  
"And you and your husband?"  
  
"Both O positive." Connor tried to say something, but his mother gripped his hand harder. "Shhh, honey. Everything's okay. I'm here."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mrs Abrams," the nurse said, "but are you sure he's AB? One of you should have the same blood group as your son."  
  
"I … that is …" Connor's mother turned her head so that her eyes were meeting Connor's. "He's not our son. He's adopted."  
  
Connor blacked out again.  
  
He had been moved when finally he swam back to full consciousness, aware of the soft lump of pillows behind his head, and bandages all over him. He risked opening his eyes, and saw his mother. No, not his mother. What had she said?  
  
"Oh, Connor!" She smiled, her eyes bleary with tears, and bent over to kiss him. "Thank God. Thank God."  
  
He let her embrace him, too achy in any case to resist, but when she moved back, he asked the question. Her eyes filled again, and he let her cry.  
  
The next day, he asked again, his father there too now and some of the bandages gone. His parents glanced at each other, and both settled down. They seemed resigned, as if they had been preparing for this for a long time.  
  
"We adopted you before you were one," Mrs Abrams said, softly. "We'd always wanted children. We needed you. We wanted a child so much, and we knew that you were our only hope."  
  
"You were a cute little thing, all black hair and little fists," Mr Abrams added. "I loved you the moment we saw you."  
  
"We both did. As far as we're concerned, you are ours," his mother said. "I guess we hoped you'd never find out. But we promised ourselves that if you did, we'd tell the truth."  
  
"The adoption agency told us that they'd had instructions from your parents – your birth parents," his father continued, the words catching. Connor watched them both. "If you ever wanted to know them, you were to be given instructions on how to find them."  
  
There was silence. Connor took the hands of the people he had called Mum and Dad for fifteen years, and nodded. "I think I do. I mean, it's all sudden, but I think I need to know. I have this feeling."  
  
* * *  
  
He wrote to the agency as soon as he was out of the hospital, and enclosed a copy of his birth certificate, and they wrote back within a week, enclosing an envelope yellowed with age. On it, Connor found his first name written in an elegant, copperplate script, and on turning it over to open it, he discovered it was actually sealed with red wax bearing an indented "A".  
  
With a heart that was suddenly beating faster, he broke the seal and pulled out the letter written on the same parchment as the envelope, a business card dropping on to his duvet with it. He picked up the card and glanced at it. It seemed to depict a small figure, or maybe a lobster, with the title, "Angel Investigations: Private Detectives," followed by an address. Connor laid the card down and turned to the letter.  
  
"Dear Connor," he read. "If you're reading this, then you know that your parents are not your birth parents. I hope you never read this. Not because I don't love you. I'm writing next to your crib, and you're asleep in it, your eyes scrunched up. The bear Cordelia bought is by your side, and you look so peaceful it breaks my heart. It is because I love you I'm doing this; I cannot bear to think of a world without you in it now, and if giving you up will save your life, then I shall endure the pain.  
  
"Yet if, reading this at some distant point in the future, you have questions to ask, and blame to lay at my door, I will endeavour to answer the questions and take the blame. But know that the truth may be painful. Truth hurts, my son. And the truth is, I love you more truly than I've ever loved anything before.  
  
"Your father."  
  
Connor let the letter flutter to settle next to its envelope, and sat motionless on the bed for a while. He found that for some reason his eyes were wet, and angrily he wiped them with the end of his sleeve. The letter had touched something inside him, he found. No name except that of a girl – his mother? No description of his father, no real reason why he had been adopted, yet Connor felt the pain inside him. In his blood, almost.  
  
He stood up, and went to his basin to wash the tear-streaks away from his face. In the mirror, his own dark eyes looked back. Suddenly Connor slammed the porcelain with his hand. "Why?" he asked, aloud. "Why?!"  
  
The pain smarted in his skin, and he glared at himself in the mirror. And then stopped worrying about the pain, and leant forwards, just in time to catch the glint of gold in his pupils disappear.  
  
He turned away from the sink, and began to pack some clothes together.  
  
Mr Abrams dropped his adopted son at the coach station and saw him on to the coach for Los Angeles. "Call us. When you get to LA and when you arrive at this hotel place. We'll worry."  
  
"I'll be fine, Dad." Connor hugged his father. "Honest. Now, bye."  
  
* * *  
  
He stood outside the Hyperion Hotel for a long time before going in. It seemed an absurdly large building. He examined the business card for another time, and wondered what a private detective was doing working for a hotel. Or in a hotel. He took a deep breath, and walked forward, and through the doors.  
  
The lobby was huge and quiet, shadowed from the afternoon sunlight. Connor dropped his bag on the floor, the thud echoing through the room, and a face popped up from behind a counter.  
  
The girl – no, woman, he corrected himself – was slightly built and had masses of brown hair tied back off her face. "Hi! Welcome to Angel Investigations. We help the helpless? Are you helpless? Do ya need help? Because we can give it to you." She paused. "Can I help?"  
  
Connor found himself smiling at her words, tumbling out over each other in a strong Texan accent. "I hope so."  
  
The woman came out from behind the counter. "Hi. I'm Fred Gunn." He shook hands with her. She frowned at him. "Y'all seem awf'lly young to be here by yourself."  
  
"I'm looking for someone."  
  
"Oh. Where did you hear about us? 'Cos, we don't really do that sort of work."  
  
"I got this." Connor held out his card, and she took it from him. "And …"  
  
He stopped, and turned towards the staircase that evidently led to the bedrooms of the hotel. He heard the footsteps before he saw their owner, but they were not loud footsteps. And something tugged at a corner of his heart as the man came into view, shrugging a black sweater over his head. A young man, probably younger than Fred Gunn, who turned a second later than he did.  
  
"Hey! Angel. There's a young man here lookin' for someone. Do we do lookin' for people?"  
  
The man addressed as Angel looked up from the red carpet of the staircase, and his eyes fell on Connor. There was a small silence.  
  
"Not normally, no."  
  
"There!" The woman pulled another card out of her pocket. "You should try Wheatley's. They're really good, they take the cases we don't handle."  
  
"I'm looking for my father," Connor said, still watching the young man on the stairs. "My name's Connor Abrams."  
  
There was dead silence in the lobby. Fred Gunn was doing a good fish impression, her mouth open wide, as she glanced between Connor and Angel and back again. Angel himself seemed frozen, his fists clenched tight.  
  
"Can you help?" Connor asked, to break the silence.  
  
The man relaxed enough to come the rest of the way down the stairs and across half the lobby. He paused a few metres away from Connor, his dark eyes fixed on the boy intently. "How did you know to come here?"  
  
"I just found out I was adopted," Connor said. "I had an accident, and they wanted to know my blood type. So I wrote to the agency and they sent me this letter, and the card with this address on it. Can you help?" he repeated.  
  
"Do you have the letter?" the man called Angel asked, his voice soft. Connor fumbled in his bag and fished it out.  
  
"Here."  
  
Angel took it, and glanced at it briefly before handing it back. "Thank you." He turned to Fred. "Fred … offer him something to drink. Please?" He waited for her to nod and then turned on his heel and disappeared through a door.  
  
"D'ya want a drink?" Fred asked, dutifully.  
  
"Just … coke?" Connor said. He waited as she went to a fridge and bent down to retrieve a can, and brought it back to him. He opened it, and drank, and lowered it to catch her staring at him. "What?"  
  
"Nothin'." She turned away and pretended to busy herself at her desk.  
  
"What?" Connor crossed the lobby to the counter. "What's going on? I come looking for my father, and I get soda?"  
  
Fred looked up, her eyes bright. "Angel's very good at his job."  
  
He leant on the counter and watched her type. "I'm not saying he isn't. I just want to find my dad."  
  
"He'll …" Fred began, but the door to the hotel opened just then and she broke off.  
  
"Fred!" A tall, good-looking black man rushed across the lobby and swung the slight woman in his arms. "Hell, girl, you're lookin' great."  
  
A slim, elegant woman followed the man, dumping down a selection of shopping bags. "Hey, Fred."  
  
"Cordelia." They hugged.  
  
Connor looked from one to the other and back again. "Cordelia," he said. The elegant brunette turned to him.  
  
"Yes? Who're you?"  
  
Fred stood on tiptoes and whispered in her ear, and Cordelia's eyes went wide. "Really? What?" She lowered her voice. "What did he say?"  
  
"He's in the office."  
  
"Oh." Cordelia frowned. Then she smiled. "Idiot." She came around the counter. "Let's look at you." She took Connor by the shoulders, and then suddenly bent and hugged him. "It's a cliché, but how you've grown!"  
  
"You know me?" Connor smelt perfume and shampoo. It was comforting.  
  
"Hell yeah!" Cordelia let go of him. "I bought you bears. I changed your diapers." She stood back. "Doesn't he look like his dad?"  
  
Fred and the man frowned. "Kind of, I guess." The man held out a hand to Connor. "Charles Gunn, and I don't reckon you'll remember me."  
  
Connor shook the hand and shook his head. "No, I don't."  
  
"Well, you were only a little bitty thing," Fred said matter-of-factly. "A cute little bitty thing. You smiled lots."  
  
"So why was I given up for adoption?" Connor said, his voice rising. "Who gave me up? Who's my father?"  
  
There was silence as the three adults exchanged glances. Gunn put his hands in his pockets. Cordelia pretended to unpack shopping.  
  
"Um," said Fred.  
  
"It's kind of complicated," Cordelia added.  
  
"It's not really for us to say," Gunn pointed out at the same time.  
  
Connor sagged. He knew that these people knew. He had come all this way. He folded up the letter and picked up his rucksack and put the letter away carefully, hoisting the bag on to his shoulders.  
  
"Well," he said. "Thanks. I guess."  
  
He turned, and started to make his way out of the lobby. Behind him he heard a door open, and rubber soles on the linoleum floor.  
  
"Stop." Connor paused, but did not turn around. There was a moment's silence. Then the voice came again. "Connor. Please – don't go."  
  
Connor turned around, his fingers tucked under the straps of his bag, and faced Angel across the floor.  
  
"I … it was only to save you," the man said. "It was all for your own good." A pause. "My son." 


	2. The Miracle

Disclaimer and notes: see chapter 1  
  
  
  
For a moment Connor stared at Angel, across the lobby, who was managing to avoid his gaze by fiddling with a ring on his hand.  
  
"But you're too young!" he burst out, eventually. "You're less than twice my age. Nice try, but I'm not believing that."  
  
"I … I understand if you're angry," Angel said, hesitantly. "I imagine it's a lot to take in all at once …"  
  
Cordelia went over to Angel and steered him over to the round sofa in the centre of the lobby. "Sit."  
  
"Cordy …" He tried to protest.  
  
"Sit, and shut up." The brunette crossed the room to Connor and took his arm too, and forcibly pushed him to join Angel on the sofa. "Sit too." She stepped back, and folded her arms. "Now. Connor, meet your dad. Angel, start talking."  
  
Angel looked up at her with eyes full of protest. "Cordy, I don't know whether that's the best idea."  
  
"He's come all this way to meet you. The least you owe him is an explanation. We are going for coffee. Aren't we, guys?" She turned a glare on Fred and Charles Gunn.  
  
"Coffee's good," offered Fred. "Almost as good as tacos. Come on, Charles."  
  
"Talk to him, man," Gunn said to Angel, as he was being towed out by the two women.  
  
They were alone in the lobby, and Angel stood up again and started pacing. Connor watched him.  
  
"Look," Connor said, fidgeting on the sofa, "it's obvious you've got something to explain."  
  
"Do you love your parents?" Angel asked suddenly, spinning round and meeting Connor's eyes.  
  
Connor, taken aback, took a second to respond. "Yeah. I guess. They're cool. I have everything I want, I suppose."  
  
"And school? Friends?"  
  
"I do okay at school. I'm better at sport. I'm on the track team and the baseball team. Got friends too."  
  
Angel's face twitched, and Connor had the impression he was trying not to show some emotion. "So why'd you come here, then?"  
  
"'Cos … I don't know." Connor considered. "It came suddenly, you know, finding out I was adopted. I wasn't upset, or anything. It was … it all happened because of blood groups at the hospital, you know? Then I wrote to the agency and they sent me that letter, and for a moment I was so angry with whoever had given me away – that was weird, it was almost like my eyes changed colour or something – and I just decided to come." He watched Angel pace. "Can't you stand still?"  
  
Angel paused for a moment. "What can I say to you to make you believe me?" He took another three paces, and then changed direction and headed towards the stairs. "Come on."  
  
Connor picked up his bag and followed Angel up the red-carpeted stairs; two flights and then along a dark corridor with a lamp lit at the far end. Halfway along, Angel pushed open a door and wordlessly stood back for Connor to enter. He found himself in a large, dim room split into two halves – kitchenette and bedroom. The bed was spread with a deep burgundy duvet and there was a book lying on the bedside table. Connor glanced at it: Dickens.  
  
Angel was reaching up inside his closet – which seemed to be filled with almost exclusively black or near-black clothes – for a cardboard box, which he dumped down on the floor. It was covered in dust, and Connor noticed he hesitated for a while before opening the lid, which made dust fly everywhere.  
  
He came and squatted on the floor next to Angel and the box, and watched as Angel lifted out a smaller box and opened the lid.  
  
"Your baby photographs." He passed Connor the bundle, and Connor flipped through them. A small baby with wild black hair, in the arms of a younger Cordelia, a younger Fred, a younger Gunn; the baby on its own; the baby with another dark-haired man wearing glasses and looking a little fearfully down; the baby with a man in a red suit who had green skin … Connor flipped past that one and then, pausing, flipped back. He held it up.  
  
"What's this?"  
  
"That's Lorne." Angel's voice showed no surprise that there should be a picture of a green man and a baby in the collection. "He runs a karaoke bar."  
  
"He has green skin." Connor looked closer. "And horns!"  
  
"I suppose he does."  
  
Connor frowned and carried on flicking through the photographs. He got to the end. "That's me?"  
  
"That's you."  
  
"So where are you?"  
  
Angel didn't answer, but pulled clothes wrapped in tissue paper out of the box. "I kept everything. I couldn't bear to look at it, but I kept it." Toys followed the clothes. "You were spoilt rotten."  
  
"What about the photos?" Connor waved them at him. "Where are you? Where's my mother? Normally parents like to have their photograph taken with their child. My parents have hundreds of me and them at home."  
  
Angel stood up. "This is why."  
  
He pushed open a door leading into a bathroom, and Connor scrambled to his feet and hurried to follow him. Angel looked at him. "I'm sorry, Connor." He seemed to brace himself, and then pulled down a piece of cloth covering a mirror on the wall.  
  
Connor looked into the mirror, seeing his own unruly dark hair and eyes and expecting to see Angel's next to him. He looked sideways, and saw Angel at his side; looked forwards and saw nothing.  
  
He yelped and moved fast out of the bathroom. Angel followed, sorrow in his eyes. "I don't reflect. Cameras don't work. And I might look as if I could be your elder brother, but I've looked like this for two and a half centuries."  
  
He took a step towards Connor, but Connor retreated backwards. "Hey! Stay away … what are you?"  
  
"I won't hurt you. Not you."  
  
"What are you?" Connor demanded.  
  
"A vampire." The words fell heavy in the room, and Connor would have laughed if he hadn't been quite so terrified. "But … but I haven't … I haven't killed anyone for a long time. I'm cursed …"  
  
"Like Dracula?" Connor hung on to the part he had understood. "But … that's a bed. Not a coffin?"  
  
"Dracula has a lot to answer for," Angel said tersely. "He liked coffins. Capes too. The whole haunted castle business. Idiot."  
  
"You met Dracula?" Connor asked, amazed.  
  
"Briefly. Once."  
  
They regarded each other, Connor trying to match up Angel's features with his own. "You're really my father?"  
  
Angel smiled, very slightly. "I really am."  
  
Connor nodded. "I guess I knew anyway. When you came down the steps … kind of recognition, I suppose. Is that a vampire thing?"  
  
"It could be."  
  
Angel moved towards Connor, hesitant, and stopped a metre away from him.  
  
"I didn't know vampires could have kids."  
  
"Neither did I. You were a miracle."  
  
"I didn't know guys could have kids without women. Where's my mother? Who is my mother? Is it … Cordelia?"  
  
Angel actually laughed, though briefly. "Cordy? No! No. She's my best friend, that's all. I couldn't manage without her. Your mother's dead."  
  
Sticking his hands in his pockets, Connor looked at the floor. "I suppose I guessed that. Who was she? Did you love her?"  
  
Angel – his father – sat down on the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. "No. Our relationship wasn't about love. It was about blood, if anything. Her name was Darla." He got up, and went across to a bookshelf against the wall, still talking. "She was the one who turned me into what I am. It's a long story …" He thumbed through a book. "After I was cursed, we met again here in the States. I … I killed her. But she was brought back to life, as a human. Perhaps I loved her then. I felt I owed her something." He found a page in the book and brought it to Connor. "Here. This was Darla."  
  
Connor took the book and looked at the open page, which showed a portrait of a young woman. She was pretty, and her eyes danced out of the picture. Her hair was ringleted under a bonnet. Underneath the portrait he read, "Darla. Painted in 1876."  
  
"She's pretty," he said, looking at it.  
  
"She was pretty. She bewitched me when I first met her. She held a part of me ever since." Angel gently took the book back. "She was reborn, human again, but she was dying. I wanted to help her. But they turned her back into a vampire."  
  
"And me?"  
  
Angel slotted the book back into place on the shelf. "I … you know about …"  
  
"I'm fifteen!" Connor said. "Of course. Go on."  
  
"Well, we …" Angel waved a hand in the air. "Nine months later, I found out she was pregnant. It made no sense. Nobody had ever heard of a vampire bearing a child before, still less a child produced by two vampires. It's not the way we reproduce. Darla … she knew by the end of her pregnancy she wouldn't be able to give birth the normal way. She knew it would have killed you."  
  
Connor waited, silent, watching Angel closely. His father's hands were clenched and his eyes seemed to gaze into nowhere. "So at the last moment … I was there, in an alleyway … it was raining … she said to tell you that you were the one good thing we did together. And then she staked herself. Killed herself, to give you life."  
  
Angel seemed not to have noticed that he was crying. Connor felt a lump start in his own throat.  
  
"I swore then, swore I would never give up on you. You were mine. Small, defenceless, you depended on me. But I wasn't to be allowed to watch you grow up. We were being chased, hunted. There was a man after you. Everyone wanted you, the miracle child. The only way I could keep you safe from harm was to give you up, hide you with some normal family, a family where you'd have two parents who could walk you in the park in the sun, and sing to you, and keep you warm just by holding you. One day we packed a bag and took you to the agency, and they took you off me and that was that. I thought never to see you again." Angel raised his head. "But here you are, my boy, and grown so tall and good-looking."  
  
Connor smiled, a trickle of salt water running down his own cheek. "Here I am." He grinned, suddenly. "I thought you hadn't wanted me."  
  
His father shook his head. "I always wanted you."  
  
Their eyes met, and Connor took the final few steps forward and tentatively put his arms around Angel's waist, and felt himself enclosed in a bone- crushing hug against a solid, still body.  
  
"Hi, Dad," he said, his voice muffled by the sweater. "Dad." 


	3. Getting to Know You

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's note: the Irish poem, 'Dun Cearmna is empty tonight' found at: http://www.dnaco.net/~mobrien/irishptr/irepoems/folamh.html  
  
  
  
"So, this is my room," Angel said, waving his arm around. He led Connor out of the room and down the hallway, and opened a door. "This was Fred's, till she married Gunn. I keep it habitable in case it's needed." He glanced sideways at Connor. "You could sleep here … if you're staying?"  
  
"Yeah. For a bit. Thanks." Connor grinned back.  
  
His father led the way downstairs. "This is the lobby. Cordelia and Fred's desks. The office." Connor followed him into the office, neatly furnished with a desk and chairs. Angel opened a cabinet. "You're not to touch these without someone else around, all right?"  
  
Connor moved forward in awe, his mouth slightly open. "Wow."  
  
Angel picked out a knife from the weapons stacked neatly in the cabinet, and tested it against his finger before replacing it. "You like them?"  
  
"Wow," said Connor again. He looked at Angel. "But why?"  
  
"Oh." His father closed the cabinet. "Um. It's what I do."  
  
Connor chose a chair and sat down. "I thought you were a private detective or something."  
  
"I am. We solve the cases people don't handle … demons, vampires, possessions. They come to us and we help them." Angel steepled his hands in front of his face. "Cordelia … Cordy gets visions, too, to direct me to those who need help and can't ask for it."  
  
"Visions?" Connor was entranced.  
  
"From the Powers That Be. The … guiding beings who control us."  
  
"Like God?"  
  
Angel met his son's eyes. "Connor, I can't say I believe in God as such. I believe in the power of belief, and the fact that there are undeniably powers guiding us. Guiding our destinies. And nobody could spend 250 years being scared of a cross without believing in something."  
  
"So …" Connor said, thinking aloud, "Cordelia gets a vision of someone in danger, and you go along and save them?"  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"Wow."  
  
Angel smiled at his son's rapt expression. "Let's continue the tour, shall we?" Connor nodded and stood up. "So, office. With weapons you're not to touch."  
  
"Got that."  
  
"Good." They went through several doors and down a passageway. "Kitchen. There's a fridge in the lobby too. Cordy and Fred keep sodas in it. But here there's food. Don't bother looking in this fridge." He tapped the door of one.  
  
Connor found his curiosity piqued. "Why not?"  
  
Angel frowned. "I can't remember if I was as inquisitive at your age. Because there's nothing in it for you."  
  
"So what is in it?"  
  
Angel sighed audibly, and opened the fridge. "My food."  
  
The door swung back to reveal neat rows of plastic cartons and a few plastic bags filled with a deep red liquid. For once, Connor was silent, looking at the fridge with a different kind of awe.  
  
"Is it human?" he asked, after a moment's contemplation. Angel swung the fridge shut and walked firmly away from it.  
  
"No. Animal. Pig, mostly. I don't drink human blood anymore. And that's the last I'm saying on the subject, I'm afraid. You want more answers, ask Cordy."  
  
They went through more passages and down some stairs.  
  
"Basement. Training area." Angel picked up a dagger lying on a table, examined it for a moment, and then threw it accurately at a target. "Hmm." He turned to Connor. "I think that's it. That's the Hyperion."  
  
"But it's huge, you've only shown me a bit of it," Connor pointed out.  
  
"It's fairly decrepit. We can't afford to renovate as much as I'd like."  
  
"I guess not."  
  
They arrived back in the lobby and Connor sat down on the sofa. Angel watched him, and then sat down next to him. "Tell me about your parents."  
  
"My parents? Mum and Dad?" Connor reflected. "Like what?"  
  
"What do they do?"  
  
"Oh. Dad's an accountant. Mum does a bit of teaching, when she's needed."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"San Diego. La Jolla."  
  
"So you were never that far away. If only I had known."  
  
"I … like I said, I like sport. I'm good at running. I'm fast. I'm not that keen on schoolwork but I do it. My grades are okay."  
  
"Good. I'm glad. I hated school."  
  
"Did you?"  
  
Angel stared into space. "Completely. We were taught by the village priest, in Latin. He wouldn't let us speak Gaelic or even English. I used to sneak off and go egg-hunting by the beach, and then my father would catch me and then we'd argue. And none of it was ever any use. I put nothing into practice." He paused. "Except the Latin, for magic."  
  
"What's Gaelic?" Connor asked.  
  
"Gaelic? Irish. I'm Irish. Or I was, once." After a moment, he began to speak softly.  
  
"Folamh anocht Dún Chearmna  
  
do Ráith Teamhra is cúis bhaoghail;  
  
méad uaigneasa an dúin dreachglain--  
  
beart do bheartaibh an tsaoghail."  
  
"It's an old poem I used to like," he said. "I doubt I could hold a conversation these days. Not that there's anyone to speak to."  
  
"Where was my mother from?"  
  
"Darla? Originally, I have no idea. I'm sorry. But I know she was turned – made into a vampire, I mean – in Virginia. In the early 1600s."  
  
"When?!" Connor's eyes bulged.  
  
"The oldest mother ever," said Angel. "And the oldest father. I'm sorry. All this must be so odd for you."  
  
"Kind of," he admitted. He looked back at Angel, who was resting his elbows on his knees again and fiddling with his ring. To Connor, there was something at once very familiar and very strange about the thought that this man looked like an elder brother, was, in fact, not a man, and was at the same time his own father. His own blood. He knew that rationally he should have run away screaming by now, calling for men in white coats, but he believed everything Angel was saying. A part of him, a part that was growing stronger by the minute, felt that he had come home.  
  
There was noise from the yard outside, and in a moment Cordelia, Fred and Gunn came in from the sunlight outside, talking noisily and laughing at something.  
  
"Well, you try getting him into something that's not black!" Cordelia said. "Hey, Angel. You talked to him?"  
  
"I talked. We talked."  
  
"Did he?" Cordelia shot a look at Connor.  
  
"He did."  
  
"What did he say?"  
  
Angel opened his mouth to protest.  
  
"That he's my dad. That he's a vampire. That my mother was a vampire, but she's dead. That you all help people. Oh, and that you get visions."  
  
Cordelia exchanged glances with Fred and Gunn. "Angel got talkative? That's something I haven't seen for a long long time." She smiled, a brilliant smile that lit up the room. "It's a good thing. You're good for us, Connor. I like that."  
  
Connor grinned back at her. "Thanks. I like it here."  
  
"Someone who likes the ol' Hyperion," said Gunn slowly, shaking his head. "Wonders will never cease, Angel, man. But we've got a suggestion. Why don't we all take Connor out for somethin' to eat, you can catch some sleep, and we'll all be back later?"  
  
"We'll look after him," Fred added, in her soft, eager voice.  
  
"I'll come back," Connor said in his turn, to Angel. "I'm not going to leave in a hurry now I've found you."  
  
Their eyes met, and there was perfect understanding between them. 


	4. Burgers and Visions

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's note: please say if this gets too sickly for you! I think it will run darker later, at the moment I'm all awash in a sea of reunion happiness.  
  
  
  
They found a table for four and piled burgers and fries on it. Connor found he was ravenous and began to eat hungrily, imitated by Gunn. The two women took their food and followed suit, albeit more delicately.  
  
"You grew," Cordelia said, after a while. "Wonder if you're going to be as tall as Angel?"  
  
"Angel ain't tall," said Gunn through a mouthful.  
  
"You're just taller," Fred said proudly.  
  
"I think you look like him," Cordelia continued. "I think that's great. Poor guy never gets to see himself, and it's such a pity."  
  
Fred nodded her enthusiastic agreement, and then, catching a look from her husband, ducked her head.  
  
"How did you all meet him?" Connor asked, putting down his burger to take a drink.  
  
"He hung around my high school," Cordelia said. "And that's a long, ugly story which I am not telling now. But I ran into him when I arrived in LA, and kind of stuck with him." She smiled. "Seventeen years now."  
  
"Do you … did you …" Connor waved a fry in the air to make his point. "Like, were you ever …"  
  
Cordelia raised her perfect eyebrows. "Us? Gee, no!" She paused. "Not that occasionally, mind you, I didn't think about. I'm human, after all." She paused again. "Mostly. But he's more like a big, annoying brother."  
  
Connor grinned. "I have an aunt. Cool." He glanced at Fred, who looked up from her drink.  
  
"He saved my life," she said. "On a horse an' everything."  
  
"Wow. How?"  
  
Connor ate burger and fries, and then Cordelia's fries, and listened awestruck to tales of demon dimensions and fights to the death. His companions kept trying to outdo each other with their stories, and in an hour his world had expanded immeasurably. By the end of ice-cream sundaes for himself and Gunn, and coffee for Cordelia and Fred, he felt as if he had been on a long journey.  
  
Cordelia glanced at her watch as Gunn was telling a colourful story involving a slime demon. "Oh hell. Look at the time! It's already seven. Angel's going to kill us … ow … oh …"  
  
She rocked forwards, holding her head in her hands, and grimacing. "Ow … big red demon … near Sunset Boulevard … aaargh … there's a woman with a baby …" She sat up, her eyes clear. "Water?"  
  
Fred passed her a glass, and Gunn had his phone out. "Angel? Yeah, man. Cordy had a vision. Sunset Boulevard. See you there." He put the phone away. "Let's move."  
  
Connor found himself rushed into the car and almost bundled into the back seat next to Cordelia, and the car was racing down the street before he had the breath to ask what was happening.  
  
"I had a vision," Cordelia said. "Thanks!" she added, glaring up at the sky. "Which means we rush to help and you really shouldn't be here, should you?"  
  
Gunn turned his head slightly. "What's that?"  
  
"Connor. Angel will flip if he realises he's here."  
  
"We can't stop now."  
  
"I know." Cordelia turned to Connor. "Whatever happens, stay back. Stay hidden. And don't speak to Angel till it's all over, right? He mustn't be distracted."  
  
Connor felt like asking a question, but decided to hold his tongue and to wait and watch.  
  
The car screeched to a halt next to an alleyway, and they all tumbled out. From the trunk, Gunn handed Cordelia a long axe and Fred a crossbow, and after a moment's hesitation, he passed Connor a stake. "See a vamp, put that through it's heart," he said, and then, grabbing a sword for himself, they were off.  
  
Connor kept up with the adults easily; in fact he thought he could have outstripped their pace, but he stayed back and at the corner of the alleyway he stopped and peered around.  
  
It was dark, but enough light came off the street that he could see a huge figure silhouetted against the night, covered in long hair. By its feet a smaller figure was slumped, and as he watched, he saw a third person running from the opposite end of the alleyway, coat streaming behind it and a long blade in its hand. The third figure and Gunn's group reached the demon at the same time, and without a second's hesitation the battle was joined.  
  
Connor could see Cordelia pulling the slumped figure out of the way and bending over to speak to it. Fred was firing arrows as quickly as she could. But by the demon, Gunn and the other were slashing and kicking and ducking against the demon's claws. There was a roar, and Gunn went flying against the wall and lay still. Connor restrained a scream and kept watching.  
  
Fred had seen her husband land, and was now by his side, leaving the last figure fighting the demon alone. The movements were almost balletic in their grace, and the sword was handled with precision and strength, the person using it moving quicker than Connor would have thought possible. And then, with a roar both from the demon and its attacker, the thing fell, landing with a thud in the alleyway.  
  
The smaller figure pulled the sword out of the demon's carcass, and came towards Cordelia and the person she was tending, and Connor saw now that all the time he had been watching Angel – watching his father – fight. He came out from behind the wall and made his way across to Cordelia.  
  
"She'll be fine," Cordelia was saying. "She's just fainted."  
  
"There's no blood," Angel said, touching the woman's forehead – now Connor could see that the person was a young woman – and nodding. "That was a nasty one."  
  
"You're tellin' me!" Gunn hobbled over, supported by Fred. "That hurt."  
  
"But you're okay?" Angel looked up at his friend. "You should've stayed back, Gunn. You'll get seriously hurt one of these days."  
  
"I'll live," Gunn said cheerfully.  
  
"One day you may not," Angel returned, his expression serious. "Come on, let's get this woman … Connor?"  
  
"Hi. I stayed out of the way."  
  
Cordelia gestured to him. "We didn't have time to stop and leave him somewhere safe."  
  
"I was safe!" Connor protested. "Look. I'm safe. Not a bruise on me."  
  
"That's not the point," Angel said, his voice low. "You could have been hurt."  
  
"He's fine," the other three chorused raggedly.  
  
"I had a stake," Connor said, displaying it.  
  
Angel moved, in a blur, knocking the stake out of Connor's hands before he had time to register that his father was not where he had been a moment before.  
  
"If you don't know how to use it, it's useless."  
  
"But …"  
  
"How long can you stay in LA?" Angel asked, and continued without waiting for an answer. "You know who you are now. Before you go, I'll teach you the basics. Fencing, defensive moves. Simple stuff, but it could save your life." He turned to the others. "Gunn, you should get your head x-rayed. You three take the girl to the hospital and I'll walk Connor back to the hotel."  
  
Cordelia opened her mouth, and Angel shook his head. "I'm not in a discussing mood, Cordy. See you later."  
  
They accompanied the others to the car and waved them off, and then Connor fell into step beside his father, who had tucked his sword away under his coat and was, for the moment, silent.  
  
"Why did you give me away?" he asked, eventually. "I'd have thought … surely you could've looked after me?"  
  
Angel glanced down at him. "It was … the hardest thing I've ever done. But I wanted you to have a proper childhood. I didn't want you to grow up surrounded by death and darkness." He paused. "It was more than that, though. I'm fighting a war here, Connor. Stop me if you don't understand, please. But I'm fighting on the side of good, for the light if you will. It's at odds with my nature, but I have to do it. And there are equal forces ranged against me and mine. The darkness is powerful, and when they learnt that you had been born – that a human child had been born to two vampires – they began to hunt. You would have been useful to them, Connor. So I gave you up. And, I suppose, I was protecting you from myself."  
  
"From you?"  
  
"I've not always been like this, Connor." Angel's tone was heavy. "Until I was cursed, I was as bad as you can get. And sometimes you never know what will tip you over the edge." He stopped walking and took Connor's shoulders, turning him so they faced each other. "And you must promise me that should I ever try and hurt you, or yours, you'll kill me."  
  
"I … I don't know if I could," stammered Connor.  
  
"Then promise to try."  
  
Angel's eyes boring into his own held such intensity that Connor found himself promising. His father kept the stare for a second, and then dropped his hands and starting walking again. Connor hurried to catch up.  
  
"I like Cordelia, and Gunn and Fred."  
  
"There's a lot to like," Angel said. "They're strong, and Fred has to be the most intelligent person I know – one of the most intelligent I've ever known. I couldn't manage without any of them." A brief shadow crossed his face. "Why am I answering all the questions? You haven't told me enough about yourself."  
  
"What do you want to know?" asked Connor.  
  
"Well …" his father hesitated. "Um … the sort of things a father is supposed to know about his child? Like …. well, erm … have you … got a girlfriend?"  
  
"Dad!" Connor exclaimed. "Honestly … yeah. We've only been seeing each other a few months. She's great. Pretty. Blonde hair. Her name's Natasha." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out his wallet. "She's really popular, and clever – cleverer than me. Look." He held out a photograph for Angel to see, and Angel took it, seeing his handsome son grinning out of the picture with his arm around a stunningly pretty girl with blue eyes and a radiant smile. They looked perfect together, the sunlight glinting off their hair, and Angel felt a surge of tenderness well up in his heart.  
  
Connor watched his father and the flicker of emotion that passed across his face, and tucked the photograph back in his wallet when Angel handed it back. "I'll send you one of me," he said suddenly. "Me in the sun."  
  
"That'd be nice," Angel said softly.  
  
They turned in to the Hyperion and Angel took his sword out from under his coat and began methodically to clean it. Connor, watching him, caught himself yawning.  
  
"Bed?" Angel suggested mildly. Connor nearly protested, but another yawn caught him and he nodded sheepishly, crossing the lobby to his father.  
  
"I'm glad I came," he said, and quickly hugged Angel. "Night."  
  
"Good night."  
  
* * *  
  
Connor lay in Fred's old bed, his arms flung out sideways and an expression of peace on his face. For a moment Angel watched him, a silent, still figure shrouded in shadow, before bending down and softly kissing his son's brow.  
  
"I'm glad you came too," he murmured. "Sweet dreams, my son." 


	5. The 'Grrr' Face

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's note: this part marks the end of 'Thicker than Water'. But the story will continue. Watch this space!  
  
  
  
"The main points about vampires," Angel said, leaning against the table in the basement, "is that they – we – are essentially immortal. Four things will and can kill us." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Direct sunlight, if the exposure lasts more than a few seconds. Fire. Decapitation. And a wooden stake through the heart. Holy Water will burn and can be used as a deterrent, the same for a crucifix. Except crucifixes aren't much use against an older vampire. Got that?"  
  
Connor nodded. "Got it."  
  
"Okay. Next, vampires are faster and stronger than your average human, and both things increase as a vampire ages. Vampiric senses are also stronger than human ones – I can smell that you didn't shower this morning."  
  
"Dad!" Connor blushed red. "That's not fair. I tried, but nothing came out of the shower head."  
  
"I'll get it fixed." Angel picked up a stake from the table. "Okay, now try and attack me. Don't tell me when you're coming and should you manage to get anywhere near my heart, don't stake me."  
  
Connor caught the stake and weighed it in his hands. "What if I hurt you?"  
  
Angel smiled. "You won't."  
  
Connor turned the stake another time, and then suddenly launched himself across the room at his father, the point held out before him, aiming at Angel's chest. But he had only moved a few yards before Angel had sidestepped, and Connor tripped and fell on the mat.  
  
"Ow."  
  
Angel held out a hand and pulled Connor up. "See?"  
  
"I bruised my butt."  
  
"Sorry." A flash of regret flickered through Angel's eyes. "Let's try fencing. Ideally you should start with safer blades, ones you can't hurt yourself with, but I don't have any." He passed Connor a thin sword, shining with care and attention, and showed him how to hold it. Connor found it comforting to have his father's solid body behind him, correcting his grip with gentle, cool hands. For a second he reflected that it should have felt strange, this lack of heat, but forced himself to concentrate on his sword as Angel picked up another, much bigger and heavier weapon and with a swift flip turned it in the air.  
  
"Wow. How do you do that?" Connor said, his eyes wide. Angel looked at his sword and then back at his son.  
  
"What? This?" He turned it again. "Um. I … just do?" He frowned at Connor. "I don't know. I suppose I've just had a lot of practice. All right. Copy me."  
  
Over the next hour Angel took Connor patiently through the basic moves of fencing until he was satisfied that his son could at the very least handle a sword safely. They left the dark basement and went up to the lobby to get drinks, Connor opening a can of fizzy orange and Angel, with a look of apology, taking out a cup full of blood.  
  
"You don't mind?" he asked, gesturing with his free hand.  
  
"It's kind of gross," Connor admitted truthfully. "But it's part of you so I guess I'd better get used to it."  
  
"Wes never did get used to it," Angel said softly, and broke off. "Sorry."  
  
"Wes?"  
  
"Have you inherited our hearing?" his father asked.  
  
Connor shrugged. "Maybe. I can hear pretty well. Who's Wes?"  
  
Angel turned his back and said nothing, lifting the cup to his lips and drinking. Connor watched him and thought.  
  
"He's the guy with the glasses in my baby photos, isn't he? Where is he? What happened?"  
  
His father turned round abruptly, crushing the empty cup in one large hand.  
  
"What happened, Dad?" Connor repeated. Angel threw the cup into a bin and said nothing. His face was stony, and Connor thought he seemed to be fighting against something. "Dad?"  
  
The word acted as a trigger, and in a flash Angel's face had gone, replaced by something hideous, ridged, toothy, with a pair of golden eyes glaring at Connor.  
  
Connor opened his mouth to say something, and stumbled backwards, tripping over a chair and landing on his backside for the second time that day. The thing that had been his father took one step forwards, growling low, and bared long fangs before pausing, turning, and retreating like the wind towards the stairs.  
  
Connor was still shaking when Cordelia and Fred arrived, ten minutes later. Cordelia took one look at Connor and sat him down with her arm around his shoulder.  
  
"Angel went 'grrr', didn't he?" she said. "Big teeth and stuff?"  
  
"It just happened," Connor said, staring into space. "We'd had such a great morning."  
  
"What triggered it?" Fred asked. "Because it doesn't happen very often, not now, though it used to, and in Pylea when it happened it was all over, ya know?" She paused. "Sorry, I'm babbling again."  
  
Cordelia patted Connor on the shoulders. "It's still Angel. Just, sometimes his demon gets the better of him, and comes out to say hi and then goes away again."  
  
"He growled at me!" said Connor. "Like an animal."  
  
"A vamp's just a demon," Fred said. "'Cept Angel has a soul, but there's still this demon inside him. He'll be normal next time you see him. But what triggered it?"  
  
"I wanted to know who Wes was," Connor explained, cautiously.  
  
There was silence. Fred and Cordelia exchanged glances, and Cordelia sighed. "That explains the grrr."  
  
"But why?"  
  
"It's a long story," Cordelia said. "Not a nice story either. Your dad doesn't come out of it smelling like roses. You want to hear it?"  
  
"I want to know," Connor replied. "Even if it's nasty."  
  
Cordelia took off her coat and sat back in her chair.  
  
"Wesley was English," she began. "I met him at high school – he came to help … well, to help our librarian. But he got sacked and wound up here like everyone else does, tracking demons. Ran into Angel and like me never went away." She frowned, her beautiful features showing sadness and a little age. "Wes was sometimes stuck-up and boring, but he improved. Angel's like an older brother. Wes was too, but he was the annoying brother you argue with. He was smart and brave and strong. And irritating as hell."  
  
She paused, and swallowed, and took a deep breath.  
  
"One day – must've been ten years ago? I had a vision, and Angel took Gunn and went out after it. Then I had another, and Wes said he wouldn't wait, but went to deal with it. He didn't come back. It got to dawn, and Angel was back covered in goo, but Wes was still out there and didn't respond to his phone. We called his ex-girlfriend, we called anyone we knew. Lorne hadn't seen him – "  
  
"That's the green guy," Fred put in, helpfully."  
  
"Neither had anyone else. Nobody like Wes in the hospitals. We waited all day. Angel went out into the sewers to ask around. Then about an hour after sunset, Wes … came back." Cordelia shrugged. "Angel was upstairs. I just saw him and ran and hugged him, and he kind of hugged back but like his heart wasn't in it, you know? He said he was glad to see me. Then … then he vamped out. Did the 'grr' face. I screamed, kicked him, ran away, and Angel came down the stairs. He knew at once, and threw me a stake, and then went to the cabinet and started chanting."  
  
"Chanting?" said Connor.  
  
"There's a spell which gives vamps their souls. What Angel had done to him. He was trying to curse Wesley, and give him his soul back. Bu Wes got to the Orb of Thesulah …"  
  
"… which holds the soul till you can transfer it," explained Fred.  
  
"… and broke it," continued Cordelia. "Smashed it. So Angel stopped chanting and grabbed a sword, and Wes grabbed another, and they were at it here in the lobby. And Wes was always good with swords. They fought and fought and fought, and Wesley was talking all the time. Saying to Angel how could he not embrace being a vamp, and killing was wonderful, and he just went on. It was horrible. And then … then Angel got lucky, and cut Wes's head off … there was dust everywhere, and it was Wesley. And I'd had a crush on him when he arrived in Sunnydale, and he'd given me aspirin and saved my life …  
  
"And Angel dropped the sword and disappeared, and I was left here till Fred arrived." Cordelia shrugged. "That was Wes. That's why Angel doesn't like talking about him."  
  
Connor leant over and gave Cordelia a hug, which she returned, sniffing. "I'm sorry," he said.  
  
"Not the first friend I've had who's been vamped," she replied.  
  
Fred got the giggles, and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry," she gasped.  
  
"There's Harmony," Cordelia explained. "High school. She got turned at the end of it. She's still around, somewhere, being a complete bimbo." Her expression became more serious. "Angel's got a lot of things over his head, Connor. Lots of things he feels guilty about. Most of it, he doesn't need to. Just don't press him. He's a vampire, after all."  
  
"But he's my father," Connor said. "And we've got fifteen years to catch up."  
  
"And he loves you," Cordelia reassured him. "Believe me, he loves you."  
  
* * *  
  
Connor tapped on the door and went in before he got an answer. He found Angel sitting in an armchair in his darkened room, glaring at a sketchpad on his knees and drawing with brisk, firm strokes.  
  
"Hey." Connor looked over his father's shoulder, and saw a good representation of the man with the glasses – Wesley. "I'm sorry about earlier. I came to see you were all right."  
  
Angel scowled at the picture and tore off the sheet, scrunching it into a ball and throwing it into the bin across the room. "I'll be okay."  
  
"Good. 'Cos I just rang … my other parents, and they said I have to come home tomorrow. We've just got this evening."  
  
Angel turned his head and met Connor's eyes. "You have to leave?"  
  
"I've got school and stuff," Connor said. "And … and I love them too, you know? I'll come back."  
  
"Promise me you will," said Angel intensely. "Promise me."  
  
"Of course." Connor sat down in the opposite chair. "It's like … like something was missing that I never knew about, and now it's not missing anymore. You're my father. That's important. And," he admitted honestly, "I think it's cool what you do. I want to learn more fencing and stuff. How many kids can say their dad's a real hero?"  
  
"I'm not a hero, Connor," Angel objected gently. "I'm just … I'm trying to atone. And I'm trying to keep a part of me quiet. If I can't kill humans, I'll kill demons. It just happens to be something I enjoy and am quite good at."  
  
"You help people!" Connor said. "I've been talking to Fred. You saved her."  
  
"I killed so many more," Angel returned, his voice soft and sad.  
  
"I saw you save a life," his son said. "That's cool. That means something. I'm proud of that. Plus, all my friend's parents have grey hair and work in banks and stuff. Anyway, I want to go and catch a movie and then have something to eat, and though you might not like pizza you're coming too. I want to hear about you saving lives. And about my mother. And Cordelia when she was younger."  
  
With a resigned smile, Angel allowed Connor to tow him out of the room.  
  
* * *  
  
"I'll call every week," Connor said. "I'll write. Can I send emails? And I'll come and see you every holiday. Come to San Diego."  
  
"It's a bit sunny in San Diego," Angel said. "But if I have time, yes. Be careful, Connor. Watch out. There may still be people or demons after you, because of me, because of Darla. Look after yourself, and call if you have problems."  
  
"I'll be fine." Connor hesitated, and then reached up and put his arms around Angel's neck. "You know, I think I kind of love you, Dad."  
  
"I love you too. More than anything." Angel returned the embrace cautiously. "Now go, you'll miss the bus. Thank you for coming."  
  
"Thank you for being honest." Connor stepped out of the shade into the sun and climbed into the bus, sitting down as the engine started and the grey vehicle moved away. In the shadows of the shelter he saw his father standing like a statue, hands in his pockets. He waved, and then Angel was gone. 


End file.
